Heartbreak
by eolas eadrom
Summary: "Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up." Oneshot. Not a happy ending.


Had you asked any of them, they all would have said Harry was their leader. Had you asked Harry himself, he would have replied, however reluctantly, that he was a leader. But the truth of the matter was it was Daneira- Daneira was the one who had brought them together, and kept them together. She was the one who did the things that no one else had the strength to do- killing, torturing, everything.

And she did this all without being asked, from the shadows- letting Harry keep his sense of leadership even as she was the one who did it all. She was the one who could calm Ginny when she was exploding, who stopped Hermione and Ron's horrendous arguments- the ones that made birds fly away in alarm, and everyone in the vicinity cringe and cover their ears. She could boost Neville's confidence when it was down better than anyone else, and bring Luna out of her monologues on strange creatures with a simple touch.

She was the one who had solidified Luna and Hermione's friendship- they had both disliked each other at once, Hermione for Luna's madness, and Luna for Hermione's close-mindedness. She was the one who kept everyone's relationships balanced, but important. She was the only one who could talk Harry out of his dreadful "I'm-going-it-alone-speeches," as Ginny had named them on one of the good days.

And then, before they had noticed, years had passed, and though so many fell around them, the seven stood, tall, a shining beacon of hope for the Light. But a stray spell, from a Death Eater they all had thought was dead, hit Daneira, Daneira, the one who should have been there through it all, in the back.

And they had borne her back to their camp, but she had told Hermione not to bother stopping the spell- she would die, and she was resigned to it, and she would spend the last hours of her life with those who she had protected so well for nearly half a decade. And Hermione had told them, between her tears and hiccupping, of Daneira's courage, though she hardly needed to- of how the spell would torture her perhaps worse than the Cruciatus. Of her strength, a strength they all had known, that she displayed without ever thinking about it.

Daneira had lain in a bed of reeds, her gaze fixed on the stars, and her last words were not meant for any of the living. It was meant for a man she had wanted to join for so long, but had been prevented from doing so for so long. She had looked upwards with a face too serene for a girl who should have been in excruciating pain, and she had whispered, "I tried, Sirius." And she had taken one breath in, one breath that seemed to last an eternity, eyes locked on a single star that seemed to glow a bit brighter than any other, and when she exhaled, she didn't move again.

They had been locked in their grief for so long, too long. But when Harry led them into a single raid, one that he had tried so hard to emulate Daneira with, they lost, they lost Neville to a single moment with incompetence, and he bled out even as they all fought so hard to go back to safety, even though there was no where safe without Daneira leading them.

And Luna, sweet Luna, innocent Luna, had screamed and pointed at Hermione with a fury Harry hadn't thought possible, and told her such horrible things, such things that couldn't be true, but Hermione didn't see that. And neither did Ron, and he stood up to her, and shouted back things that were just as ugly, just as dark. And though Hermione and Ginny tried to hold him back, there was no taking back the way his eyes darkened with such hate, a hate that Daneira had kept back and nearly extinguished.

And Luna threw the first curse, a dark one that should have killed Hermione, but it was Ron who stepped forward, and it was Ron who was blasted backwards so that there was a hole where his heart had once pounded with such loyalty. And Ginny who had been restraining Ron, stepped forwards, and was once more thrown backwards, thrown behind Hermione whose hands and body was painted a hideous, a burning red that Harry hadn't known could exist.

And for all their former friendship, for all their former love, they fought with a viciousness that seemed driven by it, not despite of it. And now it was Luna who was thrown backwards, Luna, whose blood painted this grass where they had once felt so happy and safe, with a different leader, and a different world.

And then, Hermione, shaking with a knowledge of death and gore that none of them had thought possible, trembling with a self-awareness that no words and spells and actions could erase, shook her head as she finally saw her best friend, frozen, sitting, splashed with the blood of all that had been close to them, and strode out.

Later, years later, Harry would find out that Hermione had walked out of their protections into the largest Death Eater camp Voldemort had. Whether it was by accident or purpose, who could know? But she had been tortured- had been put through such horrible things that Harry couldn't think of, and she had been broken and fixed too many times to be whole again. And the green light that came from not his wand but another's, and hit her, and left her, broken, crumpled, curled against the floor, relieved him more than anything they could have done.

And then, he had escaped, had walked away from their happiness, from their laughter and love, for how could they think he was the same? How could he, who had watched as his friends and loves tear themselves apart, ever be the same again? How could he, who was no longer the Golden Boy of Gryffindor, who was no longer a shield against the shadows, but part of them, _wreathed_ in them, ever be the same as the child who had, yes, felt so much, seen too much, but had still been able to believe in love and fairytales and happy endings? How could they be so blind?

And so, Harry left. He walked away from them, his walk that of an old man, not of a hero. His eyes were so desperate, so sad, so hopeless, the eyes of a warrior, not a man who was not yet thirty, not the eyes of a man with a life and a destiny as sure as the stars in front of him. But on he walked, not heeding the twitchings of fate, of destiny, of time. He walked, and swore to himself that he would be the man that Daneira had created, had forged.

A man of hardness when needed, but of surprising gentleness. He would be alone, yes, but being with other humans seemed nothing but a burden to him now- for how could they understand him? How could they see him as a man, and not a hero? And the world he had saved would face another threat, soon enough, and they would ask him, but he would say yes, and he knew that couldn't happen.

And years, nearly a century had passed. And Harry had grown old, but never had he forgotten. As time had passed, he had learned to speak to the forest, to the birds and trees and critters that lived everywhere and were everywhere. He hadn't gone near humans in nearly sixty years- the tales of the Boy-Who-Lived had faded away to myth, away, to show that everyone wanted to forget, and had he stayed, he would have been an unneeded reminder of a war no one needed.

But he hadn't been idle, and his years had been spent designing experiments and conclusions that Harry could only hope someone in the future would come across, to help them.

And then the time had come, a time he had waited for for so long, but a time he had waited for nonetheless. And now he moved, away from his cave with all his life belongings, and towards a place he had hidden so well, so well that no one could come across this part ever again. This place which held heartbreak and sorrow and love and safety all at once.

And he knelt, with his head at the stones where he had learned his destiny, and his feet brushing the grass where everything had torn apart. His one hand skimmed the water where his friends had been laid to rest, and his other lay over flowers as soft and colorful as Ginny's hair.

And he knew that when his own breath let out, there would be the same animals and plants he had spoken to pushing him in the water, so that the past would become the present, the world had come full circle.

The cool breeze ruffled his hair, white, now, and he let his breath come in, out, smooth as a bird's beak. His eyes closed, of their own accord, it seemed, and the faces, the eyes of his friends gazed back at him as hurtful and frightening as on that day.

He had forgotten, even as he remembered, the love and innocence they all had, the ideals they had stood for, that Daneira, young as she had been, had let go of. She had known, he thought. She had known they could only win if they were as bad as the Death Eaters. But she hadn't told, hadn't asked others to do what they could only revile.

But Harry had let go of the kindness that they had held so tightly to. He had become a shell, as bitter, as cynical as might be imagined. All his memories, all of them, twisted, maligned. And he might have become different, he knew. He might have turned on everyone who had never helped him, but he didn't.

For in all of his tired, despairing mind, there was one person, one set of memories which held him back every time he felt his rage and pain rise. A young woman who had lost everything- family, love, destiny. A young woman who crafted a weapon that none could break- or so had they thought. A young woman who was braver and stronger and _better_ than any other person he had ever known.

Daneira- Daneira, tired, Daneira blazing. Daneira standing, her hair splattered with blood, her eyes meeting his and holding them with a love that he had never known was possible. For she had managed to hold hope so tightly to her chest, a warm flutter that kept them going, kept her going even when nothing could have moved her.

Daneira, and he had no images of her face, twisted with hate and anger and pain, had no images, and he had tried. He had tried so hard, tried to change her, tried to twist her as he had done to almost all others, but he could not.

She was so good, so kind, so loving. She had been as kind as she could have been without letting them know, had been as protective as she could have been when the world had been so hard, so evil. She was the only one, he knew, and he now thought about her, her beauty, that she had never known about, her strength, which they had never questioned.

Her face, so smooth. Her hair, so fiery. Her eyes, so tired, so believing in him even when so many others didn't. Her hard fury when they didn't listen, her power, so strong, so much stronger than she had ever imagined.

And he let his tears fall now, an old man, for the first time since her death. He wept for loss and love, for pain and gain. For truth and lies, and shadows and darkness. He now lay, in a meadow that was hidden better than any other, and felt his spirit, slowly readying itself to leave this body. But he let his tears fall as he let his memories overwhelm him now.

And they whirled through, of snakes and children and innocent prisoners and students who didn't know when to leave well enough alone. Through images of dragons and lakes, of caves and balls. Of light and shadows and love and darkness.

And he felt himself smiling, too, smiling, because he is now going to leave, now going home after so long, too long. And then he straightened, let his body brush his history, of both love and hate. And he breathed in, out, let his breath fill him up until it felt like it brushed his toes. Two breaths, three, four. In, out, and never back again.

He rose, now, rose higher than he ever could have before. Past the clouds, past the stars. Past everything he had ever known, so fast, his breath taken away, till he arrived at a small area, breath fogging the air. And he realized, with a slight shock, that he was young, as young now as he had could barely remember being.

And she was there, draped in a gown of pure white, blond hair swirling around her like strands of gold. She looked, he thought, like an angel, like a being of pure goodness.

And then, finally, after a century of loss, of pain and loneliness and hurt, she smiled. And she said the two words that burned him, that lit him, that silenced him even as he felt the humanity in him rise again, drowning him as she gazed with the love and _pride_that he hadn't dared to even hope for.

"Well done."

_Fin._


End file.
